


Maybe and Possibility

by QueenOfNewOrleans22



Category: Mayhem (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:41:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29286957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfNewOrleans22/pseuds/QueenOfNewOrleans22
Summary: "Hello. I was wondering where you'd went off to." Øystein said, hating how pleasant and light and sweet he was trying to sound. This wasn't fucking Mayhem, Øystein tried to tell himself, but then he looked into Per's blue eyes and thought, no, this was. "It's snowing pretty bad. No coat?" Øystein raised his eyebrows, concerned but not curious.(Per survives his suicide attempt.)
Relationships: Euronymous | Øystein Aarseth/Dead | Per Yngve Ohlin
Kudos: 18





	Maybe and Possibility

It was Tuesday, and, as always, it was snowing. 

Inherently, Øystein knew that it snowing would be impede his plans, but he still scowled as he stood outside, feeling the snow melting in his hair, hands on his hips as he stared out toward the dark woods, ominous even in the pale, relative daylight. He tossed his cigarette to the ground and squashed it underneath the tip of his boot, searching for any signs of movement among the trees, but there had been none, with most of the animals seemingly having taken cover in their burrows or small caves. 

The pale, white snow seemed to almost be a farce, and Øystein wondered why he felt such a way but couldn't bring the reasoning behind his thoughts to the surface of the murky water, so he just scoffed and tried to figure out what kind of bird was pecking at the ground. 

"A quail. That's a quail." Jan said. 

Øystein's lips twisted. "Thanks, birdbrain." He replied, not turning around to acknowledge the other man, perhaps out of stubbornness, or that strange anger that seemed to pop up at the worst of times. 

"What are you being an asshole for?" Jan asked. 

With a barely-audible chuckle, Øystein looked down at his boots. "You don't wanna know." He answered, not keen to have to explain everything, especially with what little time he had left, clinging to like sand that was seeping past his splayed fingers. "You really, really don't wanna fucking know, my friend." Øystein didn't want him to know, either. 

"Okay, okay. Whatever, man." Jan had his hands up in a defensive but placating gesture, and then he stuffed them back into the pockets of the jacket that hed thrown on when he had left the cabin. It was too big to be his, so Jørn was probably missing a jacket, now. "Something to do with Pelle?" Jan implored a brief moment later. 

Øystein finished turning around so that he could give Jan a venomous look. "It isn't none of your business, asshole. Go back inside, make a fire or something. Be useful instead of pestering me." He cupped his hands around his mouth and blew into them to warm them up slightly. 

"Here." Jan tossed two mittens at Øystein, who narrowly managed to catch them before they fell over the railing. As usual, Jan was being his mother hen self and trying to disguise his curious nature, crossing his arms and watching patiently as the other man put the mittens on, feeling like a kid all over again. 

"Thanks." Øystein muttered. He sniffed, itched his nose. "No, it has nothing to do with Pelle." He said, tossing his hair away from his face and carefully avoiding eye contact, staring out back to the trees. 

Jan rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say." He said, playing along. "Tell Pelle to come inside, okay? Jørn went out to buy dinner for us and should be back soon." He turned around and walked back inside without waiting for an answer. 

Watching as the drummer left and shut the door firmly behind him, Øystein fought back a rueful smile and started down the stairs, stuffing his hands inside of his pockets as he walked, hearing the fallen snow crunching underneath his heavy footsteps. He had no doubt that he was about to spend much more time than he'd ever wanted to in the snow, anyways, with the upcoming Winter, although, he supposed that it had never left in the first place. 

The dark trees seemed devoid of the snow, stretching out into the sky with their naked arms. The sky itself was a devoid grey, brown-ish color, and Øystein thoight that it was pretty, in a weird way. He didn't know why, probably those connections in his brain that didn't quite connect the right way. At least, that's what the old guy who lived next door to his parents always said, so Øystein didn't put too much stock in that as he walked toward the woods, a place he usually avoided, except when he was hunting. 

Øystein hadn't been hunting in awhile. The shotgun had been locked away, deep inside of the closet inside of Jørn's old room. Jan had been against getting rid of it because of the animals, and because of his old fear that somebody would take the chance to break in to a place that was made home by three guys who routinely wore corpse makeup, and a man who had, several times, thrown dead animals onto people. 

So, after a lengthy argument, they hadn't gotten rid of the shotgun, but only Jan and Øystein knew where it was, and only Jan knew where the key was, tucked away somewhere, safe from where Per could get it. Øystein sighed at the thought, grabbing onto a tree to help pull himself up from the snow that he was slowly sinking into. 

' _Damn short legs.'_ Øystein thought, looking around as he entered the tree line, hoping to see a familiar blonde head, but there was nothing and nobody to be seen, much less Per. Øystein was still trying to get used to seeing him around ever since Per came back from his father's house, where he'd been staying since he'd been let out of the hospital. 

Truth be told, Øystein hadn't known if Per's father would've ever let him come back to the cabin, so far and so distant. Per listened to hid father above anybody else, and Øystein had no doubt that Per would've stayed in Sweden if told to do so, but his father, with the sort of graciousness that he didn't possess for anybody other than his sons, had let him come back, with one minor detail to be repeated for Øystein. 

Per wouldn't play in the band again. 

Øystein, at first, had been furious, and then he'd stopped, paused, and thought about it like an actual adult. Mayhem was more of a concept than a band, a state of reality more than four people. Per had to undergo three surgeries, and it was a small miracle that he'd survived. Øystein, in the end, couldn't blame Per's father for that insistence, and had respected it. 

Besides, Øystein had a record store, now. Or half of one, anyways, which he'd just bought a few months prior. He was effectively leader, and technically the guitarist, but with Jørn out of his commission with a newborn, and Jan taking the time to find an actual girlfriend, Mayhem was slowly falling to the rocks. 

But that was okay, because Øystein needed to reinvent it. Reshape it. Make it new, and bold, and fucking dark. He needed to figure out what Mayhem really was, and to do that, he needed to find out who the hell would take over for vocals. 

When Per had attempted to blow his head off, he had been clumsy, and the blood had made his fingers slippery. He had missed his brain, but shot a hole through the other half of his head. The other reason why Øystein had conceded to Per not being the vocalist anymore was, not only because Per hsd slit his own throat, was because the gun had ripped of Per's tongue, and the doctors had to surgically reattach it. 

Per could speak, but his voice was different. It was hoarse, garbled, from a combination of awkward surgical work and from where he'd slit his throat. He always looked embarrassed, his pale face flushing a deep, dark red whenever he had to talk, but Øystein didn't give a flying fuck and neither did anybody else except for the fans, but for as far as Øystein knew, they could all go and fuck themselves. 

The trees evened out into a clearing. There was a fallen log and a frozen pond and Per, sitting on the log, eyes closed, hands clenched on his lap. He was breathing slowly, but steadily. His jaw shivered when Øystein's hands closed over his face. Per almost said something, but his mouth remained tightly clamped shut, his own work becoming the undoing of him. 

"Hello. I was wondering where you'd went off to." Øystein said, hating how pleasant and light and sweet he was trying to sound. This wasn't fucking Mayhem, Øystein tried to tell himself, but then he looked into Per's blue eyes and thought, no, _this_ was. "It's snowing pretty bad. No coat?" Øystein raised his eyebrows, concerned but not curious. 

Per shook his head. His hands shook. He looked sad, and began to rock back and forth in that way of his that conveyed sorrow, anger, fear. Øystein barely managed to avoid being hit in the head, and sat back, the snow seeping into his pants, but he couldn't bring himself to give a damn. 

Anyways, Øystein sighed and pulled off his own overcoat. He wrapped it around the other man's shoulders, feeling Per's placid gaze on him as he pulled the coat tightly around Per, before reaching up and lightly brushing Per's hair away from his pale face. Per's hand shot up and grabbed Øystein by his wrist, his slender fingers surprisingly tight. 

"Don't." Per mumbled, seemingly forcing his mouth to move. 

The corner of Øystein's lip twitched. "Oh, what will I see under there? Scars, Pelle, that's all they are, all they ever will be." He said softly. "If the people of the world was together because they found the other person physically attractive, then nobody would be married, hmm?" He continued. 

"I'm...ugly." Per swallowed thickly, looking down at his knees. 

"I don't think I've ever seen a less ugly person in my life." Øystein felt like he was going to be sick from all of his lovey-dovey sweetness. 

Per slowly let go of Øystein's wrist, silently granting his permission as Øystein brushed away his hair. Per usually had his hair long, but now it'd just become untameable as his insecurity grew. For somebody who desired to look as evil as possible, Per was strangely abhorrent toward his scars. 

They weren't all that bad, in Øystein's opinion. Per's hair naturally covered most of it, anyways. It fit Per and his darkness, but in the light of his eyes, Per was scared and Øystein knew it. He fucking knew it, and he wished to go back in time, to return home sooner, to have never left, to have recognized the _fucking signs._

But Jan blamed himself, too. He tore himself up over it for weeks, guilty because he'd left to get a break from the constant chaos. But then, at the hospital, Jan had grabbed Øystein by the collar of his shirt and pushed him against the wall and yelled _why the fuck did you leave him alone_ and then Jørn had pulled him away just before the orderlies came running down the hall. 

In the end, it was nobody's fault and everybody's fault. Per shouldn't have been left alone, that was clear enough. But Øystein had left and then he'd arrived and the one person who he loved more than himself had cut his wrists and throat and then tried to blow his head off with the fucking shotgun. 

"I'm ugly." Per repeated as Øystein sat back, admiring the face he'd always known, even in the deepest depths of his dark dreams. He looked ashamed, embarrassed, worried, and Øystein smiled. 

"You're the most beautiful person I've ever seen." Øystein whispered, cupping the other man's face in his hands. 

Per shut his eyes. "No, I'm not." He said. 

And Øystein didn't think he'd ever get Per to think that he wasn't lying to just be nice. He didn't think that Per would look at the horrible scars on his arms, or that lumpy mass of scar tissue on his neck, or the stitched-up side of his face, but that was okay. 

Because Øystein had a lifetime to repeat it. 


End file.
